


a little bit every day

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU - Jaskier is in Blaviken, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Not Marilka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Blaviken, 1231Jaskier was nine years old when his life changed forever. He was in the market, buying stuff for his mother, when he saw him. Jaskier knew most of the locals, but this man was new.He had off-white hair, striking eyes. And he led a horse by her reins through the market.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 1135





	a little bit every day

**Author's Note:**

> written for the lovely x_anqi on twitter!
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

> **Blaviken, 1231**

Jaskier was nine years old when his life changed forever. He was in the market, buying stuff for his mother, when he saw _him_. Jaskier knew most of the locals, but this man was new.

He had off-white hair, striking eyes. And he led a horse by her reins through the market.

There was something thrown hastily over the back of the horse and covered with a blanket. His mother had always said his curiosity was a dangerous thing.

So, he gathered his bags and chased after him.

The man didn’t even look at him as he approached, but Jaskier was not deterred. He smiled brightly.

“Hi!” he greeted loudly.

The man still ignored him. Actually, he started to walk a little faster.

Jaskier pouted and sped up. “I’m Julian,” he said. “I know all the locals, but I haven’t seen you around these parts before,” and he knew he’d remember _that_ face, “Are you a traveler?

Finally, the man looked at him. His eyes really _were_ striking. Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the swords on his back and he gasped,

"You’re a, uh, uh - A _Witcher_ , right?”

Jaskier had only heard rumors of them, mostly when he was at the market and overhead adults gossiping. When he would ask them for more information, the adults would always say, “Don’t worry about things like that, little Julian.”

(He hated it.)

The man – The Witcher – cracked the smallest of smiles, looking away. “I am.”

Jaskier brightened like the sun. He scrambled after him. “Have you killed werewolves? Vampires? Sirens?”

“Sirens?” he replied in mild amusement.

Jaskier nodded curtly. “Sirens are my favorite mythical creature.”

“Hmm,” was the man’s reply.

Jaskier shrugged; he was used to holding up both ends of a conversation. He reached out for the blanket, wanting to see what was underneath, but the man stopped him, grabbing his wrist. He was surprisingly gentle,

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Jaskier grinned, all teeth, “Nope.”

He conveniently did not mention how he’d been shopping for his mother.

“Hmm,” the man replied, releasing his wrist. He turned back around and started walking again.

Jaskier followed him. “You say _hmm_ a lot, you know that?” he asked after they’d been walking for a few minutes. Jaskier wondered idly where they were headed, but he didn’t ask. He knew he probably wouldn’t get an answer.

The man snorted, and Jaskier smiled, pleased with himself.

That’s when the man stopped, tugging on his horse’s reins. Jaskier looked up and noticed they were at Master Irion’s tower. He shivered, remembering his mother’s warnings.

_Mages were not to be trusted,_ she always said.

“Scared?” the man asked, eyes twinkling with something like amusement.

Jaskier puffed out his chest. “I’ve never been scared a day in my life,” he replied, head held high.

“Hmm, pity,” he replied, turning away.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “What do you need with Master Irion?” he asked, unable to help himself. His curiosity really _was_ a dangerous thing.

“I need money,” he answered quickly.

Jaskier was tired of hearing about money. Adults were _exhausting_. “Can I _please_ see what’s under the blanket?” he asked, shifting on his feet. He stared pointedly at what looked like claws hanging out from underneath the blanket, black and filthy.

“If I show you,” he said, turning to look at him, “will you leave me alone?”

Jaskier was a good liar. He smiled and nodded, once. “Yes, but only on one condition.”

The man raised an eyebrow, silently waiting.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man replied before he reached over and pulled back the blanket.

Jaskier almost gagged, not really at the sight – though it _was_ a disgusting sight – but the smell was outright dreadful. He pinched his nose, “What is that?”

“Kikimora.”

Jaskier was hoping for something more exciting. “Cover it back up.”

Another amused snort, and he covered it up. Without saying a word, Geralt turned and walked down the path to Master Irion’s tower. “If you’re going to stick around, at least make yourself useful and watch my horse,” he called over his shoulder.

Jaskier beamed. “Sure!” He grabbed the horse’s reins. “What’s _your_ name?”

The horse, predictably, did not reply.

Jaskier waited and waited and _waited_. Eventually his mother found him. “Julian!” she exclaimed, running over. “What did I say about staying away from here?”

He pouted, glancing toward the doors. “But – ”

“Come on,” she interrupted firmly, grabbing his arm. “You stayed out so long dinner will be late.”

Jaskier pulled out of her grip. “At least let me – uh – ” He grabbed the horse’s reins and ignored his mother’s curious look as he tied the reins around one of the tower’s broken statues. He tugged once to check if they were secure. Good enough. “Okay.”

“You are such an odd child,” she remarked as she took his arm again. “Who’s horse is that, anyway?”

Frowning, he looked back over his shoulder as his mother dragged him away. Hopefully he’d see him again.

Jaskier had a thing, like most young children, for playing in the woods. He loved to pick up sticks and pretend they were swords.

The next day he rushed out before his mother could stop him, waving when she stuck her head out and yelled after him, “Be safe!”

Jaskier went deep in the woods, not thinking of the dangers – _never_ thinking of the dangers –, and picked up the biggest stick he could find. He poked at a tree, once, twice –

That’s when he heard it: footsteps.

Jaskier peeked around the tree and saw – “ _Geralt!_ ” he exclaimed, dropping the stick.

Geralt was walking with his horse, pulling her by the reins. Jaskier noticed the monster was still on her back. Frowning, he stopped near them.

“Did Master Irion not want the – the Kiki – the _thing_?” he asked, pointing at the monster.

The corners of Geralt’s mouth quirked up, “He did not.”

“Oh,” Jaskier tilted his head curiously, “What are you doing to do with it, then?”

Geralt sighed heavily, glancing around, “Usually I burn them. I can’t dump them in the water for risk of contamination.”

“Uhh,” Jaskier considered himself smart, really, but he didn’t fully understand _that_ particular word.

Geralt looked amused again as he said, “Just trust me.”

And, for some reason, Jaskier decided he wanted to do just that. He shuffled closer. “I can help,” he said brightly. He could tell Geralt was going to say no before he even finished opening his mouth. “ _Please?_ ” he asked.

Geralt stared at him for a few long seconds before shrugging, “Fine. Gather some wood for a fire.”

Beaming, Jaskier turned and ran off. He collected as much wood as he could carry before returning. Geralt took them from him and started building a fire. Jaskier watched, silent, as the fire roared to life. “Can I ask something?”

“You just did,” Geralt replied as he stood up and walked over to his horse, pulling the blanket off.

Jaskier made a face at the smell, but he didn’t cover his nose this time. “Does she have a name?”

Geralt looked back at him. “You mean – ”

“Your horse,” he confirmed. “I mean, if I ever had a horse I’d totally name them.”

Geralt snorted, gently pulling the monster off the horse’s back. It fell to the ground with a _thud_. Jaskier took a step back from the black liquid oozing out of it. “Roach,” he said finally. “Her name is Roach.” He reached down and pulled the monster over to the fire.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, a little disappointed. “That’s – really? Why not something cooler, like – like _Pegasus_?”

“If you ever get one of your own, you can name it whatever you want.” Geralt pulled one of the swords out of his bag, “Turn around.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, “Why?”

Geralt sighed, “Just do it.”

Pouting, he turned around. He flinched at the sound of flesh cutting. Finally, Geralt said, “Okay.”

He spun back around and saw that the monster had been chopped up. “ _Gross_ ,” he said, stepping closer to watch as Geralt tossed a few pieces in the fire. “ _I_ would’ve paid a lot for such a cool monster.”

Geralt smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. “I’ll remember that in the future.”

Jaskier grinned, biting the inside of his cheek. That’s when he heard his mother yelling, a good few feet away, probably at the edge of the woods. Geralt looked up at him, no longer smiling. Jaskier thought it was odd how he looked both young and old at the same time – like he had the face of a young man, but he looked even more exhausted than most of the elders in town.

“You should go,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier shuffled his feet. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

Geralt simply shrugged. His mother yelled louder. Frowning, he turned and ran to his mother.

He hoped he would see Geralt again before he left.

And he did, two days later. Not in the market or the town, though. Jaskier was playing in the woods again when he saw Geralt through some trees, crouching at a stream.

He grinned, about to yell, when he noticed a woman talking to him. Jaskier vaguely recognized her from town; her name was Renfri.

Jaskier was curious, like always, so he tiptoed over and listened as they both talked, only picking up bits and pieces of the conversation.

_“You know that I want to kill Stregobor, then.”_

_“Until he sent a thug into the woods to kill me.”_

_“You killed him.”_

_“With my mother’s brooch.”_

_“And they’ll be by my side at the market as I get my revenge.”_

He didn’t understand most of their conversation, but clearly Renfri was bad news. She had killed someone, and was planning to kill again. He tried to think if he knew any townsfolk named Stregobor but no such luck.

“You can come out now,” Geralt said once Renfri had vanished.

Jaskier startled and took a step back, crunching leaves. He turned and ran.

Jaskier thought about telling his mother what he’d overheard but he knew she wouldn’t believe him. He was also known for having a wild imagination.

He was just a child, anyway. The adults could take care of it, right? That’s what they always said, at least.

Except – The next time Jaskier saw Geralt there was a sword pressed to his throat, nearly breaking skin.

“Let the boy go,” he said as he approached slowly.

Jaskier gulped, clawing uselessly at Renfri’s arms. He barely remembered how he’d gotten here; he’d been collecting water, a daily chore, when suddenly he’d been attacked out of nowhere. One look and he had recognized the woman from the woods.

His stomach was full of dread. He had told Geralt he was never scared, which was still true – he wasn’t scared, not by far, he was _terrified_.

“I _will_ kill him,” she said.

His hands fell away from her arms. There was skin caught under his fingernails.

“I will kill _everyone_ here until Stregobor comes down.”

“Leave Blaviken,” Geralt said, perfectly even, and Jaskier watched as he lifted a hand, fingertips glowing with magic. It was his first time actually _seeing_ magic and he couldn’t even appreciate it. What rotten luck. “It’s not too late.”

Jaskier barely heard the last part of the conversation, just knew when it was over. Renfri pushed him away and he stumbled, falling to the ground with a _thud_ , tangled up in sheets. He gasped and shoved them off him, looking over just in time to see them deep in a fight, weapons clashing.

He saw Renfri stab his thigh and he winced, looking away.

He covered his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, counted the seconds.

When he opened his eyes again, the woman was on the ground, bloody and limp. Jaskier scrambled to his feet.

_“Witcher,”_

Jaskier looked over to see Geralt and Master Irion, surrounded by townsfolk. Geralt was pointing his sword at him.

“You butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken,”

Jaskier frowned. That wasn’t right; he had _seen_ it. Heard about Renfri’s intentions from the start. He tried to step forward but his mother grabbed him, yanking him back.

“You scared the _crap_ out of me, Julian,” she muttered, burying her face in his hair.

Jaskier tried to squirm out of her arms just as the townsfolk began yelling,

_“You’re a beast!”_

_“You endangered the boy!”_

Jaskier looked at Geralt, “He – he didn’t,” he yelled weakly. “He _saved_ me.”

His mother squeezed his shoulders, “ _Julian_ ,” she hissed. “Be quiet.”

Jaskier watched with wide eyes as the townsfolk started to throw _rocks_. He squirmed harder. His mother was relentless, holding him tight. “He didn’t do anything _wrong!_ ” he exclaimed, but he couldn’t be heard over the shouts of the townsfolk.

Why wasn’t anyone _listening?_

_“Die, Witcher!”_

Geralt dropped to the ground, protecting himself with his sword. Jaskier’s eyes welled with tears.

He needed to – to get away from his mother, he needed to tell the others the truth about Geralt. He had saved not only him but _all_ of them. Renfri had been willing to kill _any_ of them for her goal. Geralt had _saved_ them. He struggled harder, cheeks wet with tears.

“Stop, let me _go!_ ” he shouted. His mother pet his hair, like she thought that would be enough to calm him down. If anything, he just got angrier. “He _didn’t_ – ”

But it was too late; Geralt stood, lowering his sword. He looked directly at Jaskier for the briefest of seconds. Jaskier then watched as he turned and walked off, the townsfolk parting for him. He suddenly went limp in his mother’s arm, all the fight drained out of him at the sight of Geralt’s retreating back.

> **Unknown Tavern, 1240**

Jaskier was eighteen when he saw Geralt again. He was performing in a tavern when he caught sight of him in the corner, all alone. He still looked the same, off-white hair, striking eyes, a permanent scowl on his face. Well, that wasn’t quite right – Jaskier’s memories were a little fuzzy but he remembered Geralt actually smiling and snorting somewhat often.

But that had been _before_.

Before he’d been forced out of Blaviken and labeled a butcher. A murderer. Violent and cruel.

Jaskier frowned. Patrons of the tavern had started booing him and throwing things. He was used to it. He tucked his lute under his arm and walked, a straight path, to the Witcher. Geralt didn’t even look up. Jaskier smiled, small and private, at a memory of him doing the same thing when he had first stumbled upon him as a boy.

“ _Geralt_ – ”

But then Geralt looked up, an odd quirk to his lips, and Jaskier knew right then and there –

He didn’t remember him.

Fair enough, he supposed, Geralt looked the same but Jaskier did not. He had grown a lot, losing his baby fat and thinning out. He had longer hair now, almost wavy where strands fell over his forehead, above his ears. He realized, almost giddy, he was probably the same height as Geralt now.

“I’m here to drink alone,” Geralt said, yanking him out of his thoughts.

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat at the first dose of Geralt’s voice in years. Almost a decade.

He leaned against a column, “Who said I wanted to drink?” he replied. Geralt did not look impressed. A comment that would’ve gotten a snort out of him way back when didn’t even get an amused quirk of his lips. It was depressing.

He slid into the chair across from Geralt. Geralt breathed out, hard, through his nose and finished his ale before standing up.

“ _Wait_ ,” Jaskier started, but he didn’t.

He grabbed his bag, shrugged it over his shoulder, and walked to the door without looking back. Jaskier pretended not to be disappointed – Geralt didn’t even _remember_ him, he reminded himself, as he stood up and chased him out of the tavern. “You’re the Witcher, right?”

Geralt walked over to his horse, untying her.

“The Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt froze, his jaw clenched. Jaskier suddenly felt like taking it back, but he couldn’t.

“You should let me come with you,” Jaskier continued, fast, nearly tripping over himself as he ran over, “I could change – _better_ – your reputation.” Because it was what he deserved, after everything that happened. Jaskier had always hoped he would meet him again, just to tell him he _knew_ he wasn’t the monster people painted him to be.

Geralt turned toward him. “Come here.”

Jaskier’s heart soared. He shuffled closer and Geralt punched him, hard, in the gut. He gasped, stumbling back. He rubbed at his stomach. It had been a hard punch, yes, but Geralt had obviously not meant to really hurt him. He felt oddly warmed by the realization – the Geralt he had met all those years ago still existed, just under many, many layers.

But he assumed this was as clear a sign as any that Geralt did not like discussing his time in Blaviken.

And frankly Jaskier did not blame him.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Point made. I will not discuss – ” Geralt tilted his head, jaw still clenched, a warning in his eyes “ – _that_ anymore.”

“Hmm,” he replied before turning away. He took Roach – Jaskier assumed it was still the same horse, though frankly he knew nothing about their lifespans – and started down the dirt path. He hadn’t told Jaskier _not_ to follow.

So, Jaskier followed him.

“Don’t you wonder how I know of you?” he asked after they’d left the town. He’d been following Geralt for at least fifteen minutes and he hadn’t said a word the whole time. Not much different from his earlier self, he supposed, but Jaskier still shared some things with his younger self, too: like the fact he _despised_ the quiet, probably one of the biggest reasons he’d picked up the lute not long after Geralt had been forced out of Blaviken.

Geralt grunted, “The rumors have spread far.”

Jaskier nodded, not pushing it. He was right; the rumors of Geralt of Rivia, most notably the Butcher of Blaviken, had spread across most of the Continent, for better or worse. It had been a long time since the incident but Geralt still lived with the consequences.

He had hoped to run across him one day but he never thought it’d happen so soon.

“I really _could_ help, you know,” he said after a moment. They were still following the dirt path. Jaskier pointedly stayed far, far from the edge of the cliff. Among his other faults, he could also be clumsy.

Geralt didn’t reply. Jaskier shrugged and continued, still used to carrying both ends of a conversation,

“I know you are not the man people think you are,” he said, a little too truthfully. Thankfully Geralt did not seem too perplexed by his wording. “Let me write songs about the _real_ you, sway their opinion.”

Geralt didn’t even look at him as he replied, “Why should I care about what they think?”

“Because I know you do,” Jaskier said. He had seen the look on Geralt’s face when the townsfolk had turned on him. He had cared, _a lot._ “And,” he continued, an amused quirk to his lips, “it will also help you get more jobs.”

Geralt faltered for just a second. Jaskier knew he was winning him over.

“I mean, lots of folks need your abilities but they’re simply too intimidated by your reputation to approach you.” Jaskier jogged up, walking in front of him. He gestured wildly with his hands. “Fix your reputation and problem solved; they’ll be lining up with job offers.”

Geralt sighed and stopped. Jaskier watched him curiously.

“If I said ” _I’m going to punch you again_ “, would you leave?”

Jaskier grinned, cheeky, “Probably not, no.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He started walking again, pulling Roach by her reins. Jaskier followed. Geralt was silent, but he didn’t mount Roach and ride off, so Jaskier counted that as a win. He followed him until the sun started to set, and Geralt pulled Roach off the road and through the woods.

Jaskier was not a fan of camping, but he assumed he could make an exception for an old friend.

Geralt stopped in a small clearing near a rushing stream. He didn’t talk to Jaskier for what felt like hours but that meant he didn’t tell him to fuck off either. Small victories. Geralt started a fire, and pulled what looked like a worn blanket out of his bag before asking,

“You’re seriously not leaving?”

Jaskier smiled brightly. He stood over the fire, warming his hands. “Nope.”

Geralt sighed, heavy, and placed the blanket on the forest floor, spreading it out. Jaskier shuffled his feet. He had imagined, so many times, what he would say if he’d ever met Geralt again but now he realized most of his speeches, practiced to perfection, were useless. None of them fit. None of them were exactly right.

“Well,” Geralt said, standing up. He grabbed a sword out of his bag and turned away.

“Wait!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

Geralt turned back, an unimpressed look on his face. “Do you want to eat or not?”

Jaskier flushed, all the way to his ears. “Right.”

“Hmm,” he replied and for a moment he reminded Jaskier of the Geralt he had met as a child, eyes twinkling with something like amusement. “I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier barely stopped himself from smiling. “Okay. Be safe.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, looking almost – _confused_ – before he shook his head and turned away, disappearing through the trees. Jaskier shuffled over to Roach.

“Do _you_ remember me?” he whispered.

She snorted loudly.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, and she stomped a foot. “Okay, not helpful.”

Geralt returned not even thirty minutes later with a deer thrown over his shoulder. Jaskier was sitting on the blanket, idly strumming his lute. Jaskier smiled at him, but he didn’t even acknowledge him as he tossed the deer on the ground and began preparing it.

Jaskier was reminded vividly of when Geralt had made him turn around as a child while he prepared the Kikimora for the fire. He smiled again, mostly to himself, and looked down.

Finished, Geralt shoved some meat on two sticks and placed them over the fire.

“I just realized,” Jaskier said while they were waiting for the meat to cook, “I didn’t tell you my name.”

Geralt grunted, turning the sticks.

“Don’t you want to know?” he asked. Geralt simply grunted again. “Fine, I won’t tell you.”

He folded his arms over his chest, looking away. He held out for a total of ten seconds before he was saying,

“Okay, you know what, fuck you,” and _that_ at least got an amused snort out of Geralt. “My name is Jaskier.” It wasn’t his given name, but it was the name he had started going by after he left Blaviken to start his new life as a traveling bard, which was going _swimmingly,_ by the way.

Geralt nodded silently, pulling the sticks off the fire. He offered one to Jaskier, who took it.

Later, they both slept together on the blanket. Well, _together_ was pushing it. Geralt had his back turned to him. Jaskier didn’t complain; he was surprised Geralt was even letting him stay. He tucked his hands under his head and stared at Geralt’s back, the same back he still saw in his dreams sometimes. He had spent so many years feeling guilty for not being able to stop what had happened at Blaviken.

Geralt had done nothing wrong and yet he’d been branded a murderer – a _monster_.

If only Jaskier had tried harder, had wiggled out of his mother’s grip, had screamed louder.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t dwell on that. He had a chance, _now_ , to make things right. He would fix Geralt’s reputation, write songs about his bravery and kindness, even to young curious boys who ended up being nothing more than a liability.

In the morning, Jaskier wasn’t sure what to expect. He stood off to the side as Geralt gathered his things, hooking them to the side of Roach, before glancing at him. He had an odd expression on his face, pinched and thoughtful,

“Still not giving up yet?”

Jaskier smiled, just a little sheepish, “No.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, untying Roach and leading her out of the woods. Jaskier silently followed him back to the dirt road.

Once there, Geralt mounted Roach.

Jaskier shuffled his feet and slowly reached out for Roach, “ _So_.”

“Don’t touch Roach,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier sighed. At least he was used to walking, and Geralt kept Roach a slow enough pace Jaskier could easily follow without breaking a sweat.

He considered teasing him about it, but decided not to. Geralt could say whatever he wanted, lie through his teeth, but Jaskier knew better. He’d been lonely all this time, and it was obvious in the way he didn’t just run off and leave Jaskier behind.

He wanted company, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Jaskier pulled his lute to his front. “You mind?”

The only answer he got was a grunt. Shrugging, he started strumming, mostly just idly. Geralt side-eyed him at first, looking a mix between exasperated and curious, before he finally looked away. Jaskier smiled as he began humming.

If he wanted Geralt’s reputation to take a turn for the better, he needed to start constructing songs as soon as possible. Wonderful tales of a strong, brave Witcher.

A couple days later and they reached the outskirts of a town. Geralt unmounted Roach and grabbed her by the reins, leading her through the town. Jaskier followed, pushing his lute to his back. He had been making progress on a couple songs, but he was too scared to try them around Geralt as they were mostly about the truth of Blaviken.

For one, he didn’t think Geralt wanted to hear about any of that.

Secondly, he was kind of nervous to tell Geralt the truth, that he had been that boy. He didn’t know how he would react and while their dynamic, at the moment, was strained at best Geralt _was_ growing fond of him, little by little.

Just last night he had actually faced Jaskier as they fell asleep, and snorted when Jaskier said, “Night.”

Baby steps, okay?

Geralt walked to the inn and paid for one room. Fair enough. Jaskier had no problem sleeping on the floor. They both unloaded their things.

“If you keep following me around,” he drawled, “I will expect you to earn your keep.”

Jaskier smiled brightly. “Just show me the closest tavern.”

“Really?” Geralt replied, “Because last time you were booed and bombarded with rotten food.”

Jaskier forgotten he’d been there for that. “But I’ve been working on new songs,” he assured him. He shuffled his feet. Well, there was no time like the present. “Want to hear ‘em?”

Geralt grabbed his bag and shrugged it over his shoulder. “Not particularly.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nodded. “Okay.”

At the local tavern, Jaskier watched as Geralt settled in a dark corner, ordering ale from the young bubbly waitress. Collecting his lute, he walked to the front of the room. Taking a deep breath, he began to sing and suddenly all eyes were on him.

He focused on Geralt, who was pretending not to listen and doing a dreadful job of it.

Jaskier’s lips parted and he began to sing about a young frightened boy and his hero in the form of the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, _Geralt_ of _Rivia_.

He surprisingly was _not_ booed, for maybe the first time ever. Coins were thrown at his feet, clanking and rolling on the wood. Jaskier felt like he was walking on air. He finished with a bow and gathered the coins before walking back to Geralt, who was watching him, lips pressed together, tight.

Oh, right.

“Um, did you like it?”

Geralt looked away, “You shouldn’t make up stories like that.”

Jaskier’s heart squeezed. He cleared his throat and slid into the chair across from him. “Actually – ”

“The Witcher, right?” a man asked as he approached their table. Jaskier glared at him, annoyed at the interruption but then he noticed the bulging pouch of coins in his hands. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and watched as the man talked to Geralt. He set the bag on the table once he was finished talking. “Please, keep it all.”

Geralt pulled the bag closer, “Sounds like some ghouls.”

“You’ll do it?” the man asked hopefully.

Jaskier watched as Geralt nodded, pulling the pouch off the table and shoving it in his bag.

Well, this would his first time getting to see Geralt at work. He was unexpectedly excited, except –

“No, you stay here,” Geralt said. They were back at the inn and Geralt was preparing to enter the woods and slay the ghouls. Jaskier had tried to ask about ghouls – did they look like the rumors? – but Geralt apparently wasn’t having any of it. “It’s too dangerous.”

Jaskier whined. “How am I supposed to compose songs about your adventures if I stay _here_?”

“How are you supposed to compose songs if you’re _dead_?” he retorted quickly.

And, well, he had a point. Jaskier wasn’t much of a fighter. He frowned and fidgeted with his hands. “Will you at least tell me about it when you get back?”

Geralt grunted, not really a solid reply but it would have to do. He shrugged his bag over his shoulder.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet and stopped him at the door, “Be safe,” he said, and once again Geralt looked at him oddly. “What?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“Just – ” He looked away. “I haven’t heard those words in a long, long time.”

And _that_ was just the saddest thing Jaskier had ever heard. He grabbed one of Geralt’s arms, who startled with the experience of a man who was constantly on the verge of death. He stared down at Jaskier, an almost amused quirk to his lips.

Jaskier smiled brightly, “Come back to me, okay?”

Geralt snorted, withdrawing his arm from Jaskier’s grip. “I’ll come back for _Roach_.”

“Fair enough,” Jaskier said, eyes twinkling. “She is a mighty good horse.”

Shaking his head, and looking mostly fond – _bingo_ –, Geralt turned and left the inn. Jaskier walked over to the bed and sat down. He pulled his lute closer and started to play quietly.

> **Weeks later**

Jaskier had been traveling with Geralt for weeks when the Witcher finally told him, “Enough.”

He was afraid he’d finally pushed his luck and Geralt was going to kick him out (well, figuratively, they were currently deep in the woods). But he didn’t. He simply stood up and walked to his bag, pulling out a small dagger.

He tossed it to Jaskier, who barely caught it, “You’re going to die if you keep traveling with me.”

Jaskier smiled sheepishly. “ _Oops_?”

“Unless,” Geralt continued, stalking closer, “you learn how to fight.”

Jaskier peered down at the dagger. It was small and light. “Where did you even get this?” It was definitely not one of Geralt’s weapons. He glanced up. Geralt almost looked _embarrassed_ ; it was a new look for him, that was certain. He cleared his throat, _hard_.

“I bought it a few days ago, when we were last in town.”

Jaskier smiled, slow and wide, “You bought it… for _me_?” he asked, just to be a little brat.

“No, I bought it for Roach,” he replied instantly. “Who the fuck do you _think_ I bought it for, Jaskier?”

Jaskier laughed and tossed the dagger from hand to hand. He almost dropped it. “Okay, well. I don’t – ”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Geralt was charging at him. Jaskier squeaked and jumped out of the way at the last second, stumbling a few feet before righting himself. He stared at Geralt with wide eyes. “Wow, _whoa_ , I’m not sure – ”

“Try to stab me,” Geralt said, _way_ too calmly.

Jaskier gasped, “I really, _really_ don’t want to do that.”

At least Geralt didn’t have his swords on him.

“Wh – what if I hurt you?” he asked, holding the hilt of the dagger tight.

Geralt smirked, “Then I’ll be impressed.”

Jaskier laughed, high-pitched and sharp, “Okay, you’re the worst. Fuck, okay.”

Without waiting, Geralt threw himself at Jaskier again. He grabbed his arm and the bard yelped, dropping his dagger. Geralt released his arm immediately. “ _First_ bit of advice,” he drawled, picking up the dagger, “Don’t drop your weapon.”

Jaskier took it back, flushed to his ears, “Yeah, I, uh, I got that part.”

For the next hour or so, they sparred. Jaskier was, predictably, terrible with a weapon of any kind. Geralt was a surprisingly patient teacher, though. Finally, Jaskier tricked Geralt, ducking under his arm and popping up behind him. He pressed the dagger to the skin of Geralt’s neck and beamed, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I – I did it.”

He was pretty sure Geralt had been going easy on him, but whatever. A victory was still a victory.

Geralt spun around. “You did,” he confirmed, surprisingly soft. “Good job.”

Jaskier nodded, suddenly at a loss for words with the way Geralt was looking at him. The moment was broken when Roach snorted, loudly. Smiling, just the barest hint of teeth, Geralt turned away. “We’ll do this nightly until I’m confident you can defend yourself.”

“Because you _care_ about me and don’t want me to get hurt,” he singsonged, unable to help himself.

Geralt flipped him off without looking. Jaskier grinned, shifting on his feet. He tucked the dagger away in his boot.

Over the course of a few weeks, Jaskier was trained by Geralt. By the end of it, Jaskier was outsmarting Geralt even when he _wasn’t_ going easy on him. He was far from the better fighter or stronger, _but_ – Geralt always looked unexpectedly proud, nodding curtly. “I told you, your speed will be your biggest advantage.”

“I’m fast on my feet,” he agreed, jumping back and forth from foot to foot.

Geralt snorted, “Don’t get _too_ cocky.”

“Wait,” Jaskier said, suddenly getting an idea, “Does this mean I can…”

Geralt didn’t look thrilled as he answered, “If you swear to listen to my _every_ word, you can accompany me on hunts, yes.”

Jaskier brightened like the sun. He jumped forward and threw his arms around Geralt. It was the first time they had touched in any capacity outside fighting for weeks. Geralt stiffened for the briefest of seconds before he relaxed slowly. He didn’t return the hug, but Jaskier was happy to do most of the work. “I’m going to write you best ballad _ever_.”

“Great,” he replied dryly, “Just what I wanted.”

Jaskier accompanied Geralt on his next hunt a few days later. They had traveled to a town that had rumors of being haunted. Geralt had told Jaskier that most ghosts were just monsters. They stood in the middle of the town at midnight, both silent. Jaskier held his dagger tight, _tight_.

“It’s not too late,” Geralt said a little after midnight.

Jaskier was not running away. He squared his shoulders, “This has better make a good song.”

Geralt snorted, drawing his sword out.

The monster showed up around one in the morning, an ugly thing with crooked fangs and sharp, sharp claws. Jaskier thankfully didn’t have to do much. He just kept out of the way as Geralt slayed it. His training did come in handy, though, when the monster launched itself at him and he stabbed the thing in the eye ( _was_ that an eye?) with his dagger.

Geralt finished it off and looked over at him. “You did well.” He almost sounded _proud_.

Jaskier beamed like the fucking sun. He was covered in monster blood, black and gooey, and yet he was the happiest he’d been in weeks. “I had a good teacher,” he replied with a wink.

“Mhm,” Geralt replied but he was smiling as he sheathed his sword. “Come on, let’s collect the money and find a place for the night.”

He turned away, stepping over the monster. Jaskier had a realization so sudden and unexpected he felt like the air had been punched out of him. He was so stunned he couldn’t move, just stood there dumbly. Geralt turned back, an odd look on his face.

“You okay?”

Jaskier smiled, only half-forced, “Yes, yes, coming.” He shoved his dagger in his boot.

_He was falling in love with Geralt of Rivia_.

> **Months later**

Jaskier made a decision: he was never going to tell Geralt about what happened in Blaviken. Originally, he had wanted to, had just been waiting for the right moment, but now he saw no point. Their relationship had been growing, day by day, into something unexpected and Jaskier treasured every second of it.

He saw no point in risking things by telling him the truth. There was no changing what had happened all those years ago. All they could do was focus on the future, and their future was looking surprisingly bright.

Actually… Jaskier was starting to think his feelings weren’t _entirely_ unrequited, which was shocking but also not. Perhaps Jaskier, even as a young boy, had felt something like Destiny tugging them toward each other. Not in _this_ way, of course, but Jaskier had always been a hopeless romantic – it was no shock he’d fall for his savior.

But it wasn’t just that.

He liked every part of Geralt. He was funny when he wanted to be. Liked cracking jokes when he knew Jaskier was least expecting it, just to grin when he spit out his ale laughing.

He liked having his hair played with, which Jaskier did often when they were sleeping together at night. That had been a development as natural as every other aspect of their relationship; one night while staying in an inn Geralt had gruffly said, “Get up here,” and Jaskier had listened without complaint. After that, they’d started sleeping together all the time, whether on the forest floor or in a proper bed.

They hadn’t discussed their relationship or done anything they couldn’t take back ( _like kiss,_ his brain supplied because that was a thing he thought about _far_ too often) but Jaskier knew it was only a matter of time until –

well, until he broke and went for it, at least.

Jaskier had a good feeling Geralt wouldn’t be mad about it, though.

Maybe he should’ve known wanting to start a relationship without telling Geralt the truth – how they’d _really_ met – would end in disaster, though.

For a while, things were normal. Jaskier cuddled up to Geralt at night, stealing his warmth,

“Do _all_ Witchers run warm or is that just a _Geralt_ thing?” he asked softly.

Geralt snorted, fondly, and brushed some hair out of Jaskier’s hair. He looked beautiful, Jaskier thought, he _always_ looked beautiful.

“A little bit of both,” he answered quietly.

Jaskier smiled, eyelashes fluttering. He fell asleep with Geralt’s arm slung over him.

A couple days later, they traveled to the nearest city. Jaskier was prepared for their usual routine – find the local inn, book a room, then search for a job. But Geralt surprised him by saying, “I’ve been thinking,” and turning Jaskier away from the inn, hands on his shoulders.

“About?” he prompted, forever curious. He let Geralt lead him through the city.

Geralt smiled, the smallest hint of teeth. “You’ll see,” he answered, cryptic as ever.

Jaskier followed him to the market. It was bustling with townsfolk. Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder again and they walked through the market side-by-side and mostly quiet. Jaskier wasn’t disappointed, far from it, but he couldn’t help asking,

“Are we here for something in particular?”

Geralt nodded, “Do you see one you like?” he asked, and Jaskier was rightfully confused,

“Sorry, _what?”_

Geralt smirked, the fucker, “Do you see a _horse_ you like?”

“Oh,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Right.” Jaskier glanced around; there were a few horses being sold, but none of them jumped out at him. Geralt was patient, for once, just following Jaskier around the market as he stopped to look at the horses.

Finally, he found one – a white horse with speckles of black. There was _something_ about him.

Geralt must’ve noticed because he told the seller, “We’ll take it.”

Jaskier startled and looked over at him. “Can we really afford this?”

Geralt grunted, not really a reply, and simply handed over the money. The seller beamed, obviously pleased, and handed the reins over to Jaskier. He gripped them, hard, and smiled at the horse. “ _Hello_ ,” he cooed and the horse headbutted him in the chest. He coughed while Geralt just laughed,

“I like him.”

Jaskier led the horse by the reins as they walked back through the city.

“So,” Geralt said. “Thought of a name yet?”

And the thing was, Jaskier had always known what he would name his first horse. “Pegasus.”

Geralt faltered, slowing almost to a stop, and Jaskier’s heart thumped loudly behind his ribs. Jaskier watched, closely, as a complicated mix of emotions flashed across the other man’s face, one after the other. Finally, he shook his head and smiled, small and almost private, “Okay.”

Jaskier pointedly let the conversation drop there, not wanting to dig himself deeper.

> **A couple months later**

Jaskier hated heights. He watched, frozen in fear, as Geralt fought a monster. He tried remembering what Geralt had called it, but his brain was blank. Apparently the things liked living in mountains, though, because _of course they did._

Thankfully the monster didn’t seem interested in him at all, entirely focused on the Witcher.

Jaskier felt guilty for not helping but then – he watched as something went flying off Geralt’s sword as he swung it. He vaguely recognized it as Renfri’s brooch. _My mother’s brooch._ He had remembered seeing it, most vividly, when she had held him against her chest, a sword to his throat.

When he had first saw Geralt again and noticed the brooch on his sword, carefully slid over the hilt, he’d been – surprised, honestly. He hadn’t really known that Geralt cared about Renfri so much. He supposed now that he was older he understood a bit better.

Must’ve meant a lot of him if he’d kept the brooch for so many years, on his most prized possession.

So, without a second thought, Jaskier threw himself after it. The brooch slid across the dirt, nearing the edge of the cliff, and Jaskier followed it.

He heard the sounds of a fight – a monster’s groans, slicing of skin – from behind him. _Focus, Jaskier._

Jaskier ignored it all, even his own fear, and grabbed the brooch, clutching it in the palm of his hand. He smiled, relieved, right before the cliff gave under his feet. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for pain. Most likely death, too. There was no way a human could survive such a fall, but he didn’t feel any of that.

He opened his eyes, just a crack, and looked up. Geralt was holding him by the collar of his shirt.

“You fucking _idiot!_ ” he hissed.

Jaskier gasped, “But the monster – ”

“I killed it,” he interrupted. Stepping back, he slowly, carefully pulled Jaskier up. His feet settled on the ground and his heart finally calmed down. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Jaskier looked down. His hand was still closed in a tight fist. Thank the Gods. He lifted his hand and opened his fingers, revealing the brooch.

“Wh – ” Geralt started but then he stopped himself, an odd quirk to his lips. “I don’t understand.”

Jaskier smiled, small, and grabbed one of Geralt’s hands. He was covered in monster guts, but he didn’t care. He set the brooch in the palm of his hand. “I know how much this means to you,” he said, soft. “I – I didn’t want you losing it.”

Jaskier barely realized what he’d said until he felt Geralt tense under his hands. He looked up, eyes widening. Geralt stared at him, expression perfectly blank.

“I – I, um, I can explain,” he stammered.

Geralt pulled his hand back. “I don’t understand,” he repeated, evenly.

Jaskier shifted on his feet. His hands fell, clutching into fists. “I’ll tell you,” he said, meaning it. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… let’s go back to the inn first, okay?”

“Jaskier,” he said, and took a step back. Jaskier wanted to reach for him again but he didn’t. “ _Julian_.”

He knew, he _remembered_. Jaskier should’ve been relieved, and he would’ve been at one point, but in that moment all he felt was dread. He hadn’t lied, not really, he had simply omitted the truth but – but that didn’t matter, not in the face of Geralt’s anger,

“You lied to me,” he said, still perfectly calm. But the fire in his eyes betrayed his anger.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, truthfully. He took a slow step forward and Geralt stepped back, away from him. “When I approached you that first night at the tavern, I – I thought you’d remember but you _didn’t_. And when I mentioned… Blaviken, you got so _upset_ , Geralt. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I thought you were different,” he said, “but you’re not.”

Jaskier took a quick step back like he’d been stabbed through the heart. “I am,” he argued. “I know who you are, Geralt,” he said, speaking fast, “I overheard your conversation with Renfri. I know you are not this _emotionless_ monster, not by far, you are a _good_ man – ”

“ _Go_ ,” Geralt interrupted, sharp and quiet.

Jaskier’s shoulders slumped. “No, Geralt.” He took a shaky breath. “You are not doing this.”

Geralt took a step forward, straightening to his full height. He thought he was so threatening.

But Jaskier was not scared of him, never had been. “I shouldn’t have lied to you,” he continued, bottom lip quivering, “but my intentions were good. I was just trying to _protect_ you.”

“From what?” he replied gruffly.

Jaskier faltered. He had wanted to protect Geralt from – the past, his own memories.

“You _lied_ to me,” Geralt repeated, and that was really the heart of it, wasn’t it?

Jaskier’s eyes stung with tears. “I was going to tell you,” he said. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

“Just go,” Geralt repeated, and he sounded so _tired_. It was almost worse. “Please.”

Jaskier wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and beg for forgiveness and tell Geralt how he truly felt – that he _loved_ Geralt and wanted to stay by his side forever, wanted to write ballad after ballad about the great White Wolf, the bravest man he had ever known. He took a step back and sniffed. “I’ll – I’ll be at the inn,” he said, barely a whisper. He knew Geralt could hear him. “Waiting.”

He turned, tears spilling down his cheeks, and ran.

Jaskier sat in the room for hours. Geralt never returned, not even long after dark. He curled up in bed alone and cried himself to sleep. He was so _stupid._ He should’ve known better.

In the morning, he heard the creak of the door and sat up fast. Geralt stood in the doorway.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered, throat dry from a long night of crying.

Geralt sighed and walked in, closing the door. He discarded his things on the floor and approached the bed. Jaskier scooted over, making room for him. He sat down. They were both silent for a long moment, just staring at each other.

“I had my suspicions,” he said finally.

Jaskier was – well, shocked. He sat up straighter. “You did?” he asked in disbelief, and he thought he’d been doing such a good job at hiding it.

“Are you _that_ surprised?” he remarked. “Pegasus – _really?_ ”

Jaskier flushed, up to his ears. He shrugged, “I mean… that’s a pretty generic name for a horse, right?”

Geralt tilted his head with the smallest hint of a smile. Jaskier’s heart soared in his chest. It wasn’t over. He could fix this. Geralt didn’t hate him. “You tried to stop them,” he said. “Back at Blaviken.”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier replied. He looked down at his hands. “But I didn’t do a very good job of it, did I?”

Geralt stretched out, their knees bumping together. Even through the many fabrics Jaskier could feel the heat pouring off Geralt. “You were a _child_ , Julian. You shouldn’t have been involved in the first place. I – I didn’t _want_ you to be involved.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jaskier said, soft.

Geralt sighed deeply. “I had a choice to make, and I fear I didn’t make the right one. Even now.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Jaskier said. “And that’s what matters.”

Geralt stared at him for a long, silent moment before finally he looked down and pulled something – the brooch – out of his pocket. He stared at it. Jaskier held his breath, waiting. “Thank you,” he said eventually, an odd tilt to his voice. He cleared his throat, hard. “You were right; I would’ve been upset losing this.”

“You don’t have – ” he started, but he was interrupted by Geralt,

“But I would’ve been more upset if something had happened to you,” he said, eyes flickering up. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. “Do I wish you’d told me the truth?” he continued, tucking the brooch away again. “Yes, but I was finally _feeling_ something with you, Julian – ”

Jaskier reached out, fast, placing a hand on his leg, “Jaskier,” he corrected gently. “That’s my name now.”

Geralt nodded and continued like he hadn’t been interrupted at all, “I never believed I could feel… _good_. Okay, yes, I’d been okay long before you met me. I think, along the way, I’d forgotten there was even a difference between the two. I thought I deserved _okay_. Nothing more, nothing less.” He looked down at Jaskier’s hand resting on his leg, cracked a tiny smile. “You make me feel many things, Jaskier, things I hadn’t felt since long before Blaviken.”

He almost sobbed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Can I keep making you feel those things?”

Because he wanted to. _Gods_ , how he wanted that.

Geralt looked up. In all the time Jaskier had known him, before Blaviken, after, he’d never seen real fear in the Witcher’s eyes. In that moment, though, he looked terrified. “I want that,” he said finally.

Jaskier smiled, a twitchy thing, “Can I – um – hug you?”

Without replying, Geralt extended his arms, a silent invitation, and Jaskier crawled between his legs. He hugged Geralt around the neck tight, _tight_. He buried his face in his hair, still covered in monster guts. He smelled disgusting. Jaskier was the happiest he’d ever been.

After a while, they pulled away from each other. Jaskier stayed between Geralt’s legs.

“I want you to play it,” Geralt said, “The truth about Blaviken.”

Jaskier’s heart squeezed in his chest. “I will,” he said. “In every town and city we visit.”

Geralt smiled, a mix of something sad and happy. Jaskier hugged him again. They would need to start over in some ways – Jaskier assumed there’d be no kissing for a while, for starters – but they could rebuild what they had and make it something even better, _stronger_. Jaskier had no doubt of that.

**Epilogue**

Jaskier finished performing and listened as the tavern erupted in cheers, grinning from ear-to-ear. They threw coins at his feet and all turned to look at the man of the hour; Geralt, who was sitting in a corner, fondly rolling his eyes. They cheered for _him_ , and if Jaskier didn’t know better – but he did – he’d say he almost looked embarrassed.

He walked over and slid into the chair across from him, still grinning, “They _love_ you.”

Geralt looked around as the cheers finally settled down and the patrons turned back to their friends and family. He smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. Jaskier wished he could find a way to bottle this moment up, keep it forever. “They love _you_ ,” he said finally. “Your songs are – ”

“All true,” he finished gently. Because they were; all his songs about what happened in Blaviken were truthful, through and through. He didn’t want to – or _need_ to – embellish anything for once. “You were a hero, Geralt. You saved not only me, but _all_ of Blaviken from a massacre.”

Geralt shrugged, looking sheepish. “I did what anyone would do,” he said, but the words fell flat.

“That’s not true and you know it,” he replied, still just as gently.

Geralt looked at him, something warm and almost _loving_ in his eyes. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you,” he said. Jaskier didn’t know what he was thanking him for – he was only doing what he’d always wanted to do.

He knocked their feet together under the table. “Anytime,” he said, meaning it. He would sing Geralt’s praises for as long as he let him.


End file.
